Professor Carrow cleared his throat, and the class instantly fell silent.
"Before we begin the lesson, I think we should all reach an understanding of what the Dark Arts actually are," he said. "Can someone tell me how you would personally define them, these practices as numerous and varied as a Hydra's heads?"
Oleandra glanced around the classroom, half-expecting to see Hermione's hand shoot up as it always had. Then she remembered that Muggle-born students were banned from attending Hogwarts this year, so for all she knew, Hermione was still hiding at 12 Grimmauld Place with Undesirable Number One. She'd have to drop in later to see if they still had her mirror doppelganger.
Terry Boot from Ravenclaw tentatively raised his hand. "Er…" he said, chewing his lip in thought. "Evil spells…? Spells that purposefully cause harm?"
"Not quite, but you've touched upon the truth," replied Professor Carrow, shaking his head.
He waved his wand, and the piece of chalk resting on the tray flew up and scribbled a single word on the blackboard: evil.
"How does one define evil?" he went on. "Spells, in themselves, are nothing more than tools. Wizards decide what is evil. What may be counted as the Dark Arts has shifted many times over the years. So, no, that cannot be the answer— the Dark Lord is the world's greatest practitioner of the Dark Arts, and he has done nothing but great things for the British Wizarding World with his powers. He is not evil. You and I are not evil for using the Dark Arts."
The chalk danced again, and a new word appeared on the blackboard: harm.
"What about harm?" he continued. "Exploding Charms were developed by watching Muggles play with their black powder toys… which, if you ask me, have more bark than bite. This spell can clear obstacles, but it can just as easily tear a man apart. ExplodingCharm, BlastingCurse. Similarly, Severing Charms can be used to cut objects in daily life, or to slice open throats. Do you see, now? It all comes down to intent."
The word purposefully appeared on the blackboard in bold characters.
"Intent," he explained. "The Dark Arts are all about desiring harm upon another with all one's heart, and bringing that intent into reality through one's magic. The Dark Arts, and all curses, are the purest and most ancient forms of magic there are."
Oleandra frowned.
Hadn't Amycus just contradicted himself? If the purest intent was to wish harm upon others, then surely using spells that counted amongst the Dark Arts for the betterment of the world should not be considered dark magic at all? Or perhaps, shouldn't such spells fail entirely if the intent behind them was good?
"Now, it is my understanding that—"
There was a knock at the door, and Professor Carrow's voice trailed off. "Come in," he called at last. Neville appeared in the doorway, stumbling forwards as Argus Filch gave him a push.
"Found one of your students wandering the halls during your compulsory class's hours, Professor," said Filch smarmily, rubbing his dry and cracked hands together. "I've come to return him."
"Ah, excellent…" said Professor Carrow, his eyes narrowing. "Leave us, Caretaker. You, Longbottom, step forward."
Filch shot Carrow a resentful look and shuffled off, closing the door behind him. Neville defiantly stared down the teacher.
"Incarcerous!" Alecto shrieked.
Thin cords shot from her wand, and taken by surprise, Neville let out a yelp and crashed heavily to the floor, bound hand and foot. He felt himself pulled up by the ankles and, guided by the steady bobbing of Amycus's wand, he floated to the front of the class, head upside-down.
"Mouth off to my sister, will you?" snarled Amycus. "Well, it just so happens that I need a volunteer…"
Neville glared at the Carrows. He would have spat on them gladly, being in a prime position to do so, but the ropes gagged him.
"When it comes to the Dark Arts, intent is key, but visualisation is just as important," Amycus explained matter-of-factly. "Imagine how your spell will affect your target. Relish in the pain you will cause."
Amycus reached into his pocket and pulled out a dagger.
"As I was saying earlier, it's my understanding that one of my colleagues has already taught you about the so‑called Three Unforgivable Curses," he went on. "As he was pretending to be an Auror at the time, I doubt he could have gone into much detail beyond the Imperius Curse, so allow me to give you a practical demonstration… of the Cruciatus Curse."
Amycus started playing with his dagger, flipping it over and over in his hand. He suddenly brought it to Neville's eyes, who reflexively flinched.
"Having been personally subjected to the curse myself, I can tell you exactly how it ought to feel," he said softly, clearly relishing the look on Neville's face, which was draining of all colour. "The pain depends on both the subject and the caster, but in most cases, victims report feeling as if they are being stabbed by a thousand white‑hot knives at once… Flagrante!"
Amycus switched the knife to his left hand and pointed his wand at the blade, which began to glow faintly. "But before we get into the Cruciatus, a visualisation exercise is in order."
Slowly, very slowly, Amycus dragged the incandescent blade across Neville's face.
"MMMPH!!" Neville screamed, his voice muffled.
The dagger traced a bloodless line across his skin; instead of blood, thick smoke poured from the wound, hissing and reeking of sizzling bacon as it cauterised itself at once. Most people— even a fair number of Slytherins— turned their faces away, unable to bear the sight of someone they'd known for six long years being tortured before their eyes.
"Beg me to stop," Amycus said, a mirthless smile on his lips.
"Mmmph…" gasped Neville, as the ropes fell from his mouth. "Please…"
Amycus lifted his knife.
"…may I have some more?"
Amycus's eyes narrowed. "As you wish," he growled. "Crucio."
Neville's howls of agony filled the classroom, but no one dared to speak up for him, lest the Carrows' fury fall upon them. The students could only look down and stare at the grains of wood on their desks, desperately wishing they wouldn't have to listen to Neville's cries for much longer.
Oleandra hardened her heart.
He'd been her old Potions partner, her fellow R.C. club member— little more than an acquaintance, really. An idiot, a good-for-nothing, but he didn't deserve this. For the sake of her ambitions, she couldn't help him now; this was a punishment of his own making, absurd though it was.
Still, she would see him avenged if she got the chance later, she told herself.